


Creatures of Darkness and Light

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Rumpelstiltskin feels himself recoil, an attack of self-consciousness he has not felt since he became the Dark One. He knows he’s a monster, a child-killing monster like those he used to despise, and now she knows it, too. He’d told her with such arrogance that he’d be better than the rest of them, but of course, the damned, endless being--an Abbadon, she called herself--had been right. A bringer of death, and her to carry the souls away after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Times and Places

“A new Dark One? I knew Zoso wouldn’t last.”

Rumpelstiltskin jumps at the voice, tightens his grip on the dagger that now bears his name and rises from the side of what had been the Dark One. His own gracefulness is enough to startle him--the pain in his leg is gone, and the resulting limp with it.

The creature that stands before him is not at all human, that much he can tell. Two arms, two legs, two blue eyes, the slight curves of a young woman, and two enormous wings, blanketed in spiny black feathers, emerging from her back. She doesn’t seem fully dressed though--her white dress is more of an undergarment, something that a rich woman would wear underneath a more elaborate, proper gown. But Rumpelstiltskin is a spinner, and he can tell the fabric is richer than anything he’s ever touched. She steps past him--she smells like parnips, an utterly unspectacular thing, odd--and her bare toes curl in the grass as her wings fold behind her. He turns, keeps his eyes on her. When her back is to him, he see why she wears the thing--it falls low in back, leaving plenty of room for the wings.

“Are you an angel?” he is brave enough to ask. Rumpelstiltskin would have been afraid, but the Dark One can feel the magic creeping through him, and for a moment, he forgets what fear is.

“No.” A pause, and then, “You’ve probably encountered me before, though you don’t realize it.” She moves again to face him, though keeping herself between him and the man he’s just killed. She takes in his ragged clothing, the shudder of his hands. “I give you a year.”

“What?”

“A year as the Dark One, before it kills you, too. It kills them all, in the end, and then they they embrace me with open arms.”

“What _are_ you?” But he can hear the menace in her words, and even the Dark One has the sense to fear death, when it is before him.

“We’re nearly everywhere, you know. Though it takes a being without a soul to see another.” It’s no real answer. She giggles--the heartlessness of the sound astounds him--and adds, “The Dark One ate yours. What drove you to it, anyway?” Her interest in Zoso appeared temporarily diverted.

“Magic. To protect my son, my Baelfire.” He barely ignores the flicker in his mind, of what the old Dark One had said-- _your bastard son._ He raises the dagger, still dripping with leftover blood. “And I’m not afraid to use it.”

“Rumpelstiltskin,” she reads from the knife, and runs a finger along its wavy edge. He flinches back from her movement, but if she notices, she says nothing of it. “Take care of that blade, Rumpelstiltskin, or it will be your downfall.” She smirks. “But it won’t work on me.” 

He watches her settle on the ground beside Zoso, pulls the hood back from his head. Thinks he must be seeing things when she lowers her face to the dead man’s, and presses her open lips to his. Rumpelstiltskin can see her chest rise as she inhales deep. Something happens then, something he cannot see, though he _knows_ it’s happened. She licks her lips and stands again, and when she looks back at the new Dark One, her eyes seem brighter than before.

“It appears I’m done here,” she says. “I’ll see you sometime soon, that is certain. Goodbye until then, Rumpelstiltskin.”

He’s left speechless as her wings expand and start to move, taking her high into the dark sky, until she disappears entirely.

.....

The second time he sees her is after his Baelfire abandoned him to his magic, after he clung to his dagger and watched his son disappear. _That fucking Blue Fairy_.

Baelfire tethered the Dark One to Rumpelstiltskin. Without his son at his side, the spinner allowed the Dark One free reign, and he unleashed his anger and grief upon what’s left of the village, those who were too poor or infirm to move far, far away from the evil that had taken root near their homes.

Their homes are empty now, corpses askew on their own doorsteps. The Dark One had not killed with magic or spells or potions, not this time. He killed with rage--teeth and claws and any blunt object he happened to have at hand. The bottom of his cloak had grown heavy with blood, and he’d left it on the body of a little girl, the one that Baelfire had liked so much.

_They all drove him away from me_ , Rumpelstiltskin tells himself, gazing upon what he had wrought. 

A girl walks through one of the cornfields--dead, all the crops had failed that year, and she as slender as one of the dried-up stalks--and catches his eye. The fury, that thing that drove him to slaughter, had dissipated, but it occurs to him that he should kill her, too. 

He notices her white dress then, pristine as ever, and as she draws closer, the familiar shade of blue of her eyes. Her wings are folded neatly behind her, only a few dark feathers to betray their presence.

“I told you we would be seeing one another again, Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Get away from me,” he hisses, takes several steps back.

Her lips curve slightly, and she reaches out a hand to graze his cheek. “I do not bring death, only collect it. There is no need for cowardice here.” She glances from side to side. “It appears you’ve brought death to everyone else though. And Baelfire?”

The casual way she refers to his son makes him wish she were less than immortal--he feels the desire to bury his nails into the part of her neck where her pulse ought to be. Instead he forces out the word: “Gone.”

“Pity.” She shakes her head. “His was a beacon.”

“His _what_?” Rumpelstiltskin asks, his curiosity winning out over his wish that the monster before him would stop talking about Bae.

“His soul. Like a lighthouse, bright even across the sea on a dark night.” She seems wistful, as she stares through Rumpelstiltskin instead of _at_ him. “He’s not dead though, don’t worry. The light’s only moved farther away.”

“Where?” His fear to touch her evaporates, and he grabs her hard by the shoulders, and flecks of spittle hit her face. “ _Where_?”

She squints, and he knows that she’s looking beyond him even farther than before. “A darker place than this, full of shadows cast by pretend suns. A land without magic.”

He slumps back, and his knee trembles beneath him where the limp used to be. “The fairy was telling the truth.”

When she wrinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue, she almost appears human. “Fairy magic. Sloppy stuff. He’s lucky it worked.”

He peers closer at her, now that he’s no longer afraid she will make him drop dead in an instant, his dark eyes searching her expression. She is all sweetness, at first glance, and speaks to him as though they are old friends discussing the weather. “What are you doing here?” he finally asks.

“My job. In case you forgot what that is.” She waves a hand toward the dead villagers that lie behind him. “Those souls have a right to move on, whatever slight they may have done you.” A peek of ferocity, amidst her angelic facade.

His lips fall into a thin line.

“Besides,” and she’s smiling again, and again he’s struck by how mortal she appears, when she chooses to, “you’re one of the only beings out there for me to talk to. You, and the fairies, but they’re gossipy little things full of nonsense. And the other Abbadons--” she shrugs, “--one gets rather exhausted with them after eternity together. If my work takes me to you--and it will, I promised you, Dark One, did I not--then I shall certainly take the time for some conversation.”

“Get on with your work, then. Leave me in peace.”

She gives him a mock little curtsy before she walks past him. A wing brushes his shoulder, and he wonders if its intentional, meant to rattle him somehow. He turns to watch her kneel down beside the girl, that one that Bae thought so pretty. With some measure of reverence, she folds the cloak back from the girl’s face, allows her fingers to brush against the ruin of the mangled skull.

And Rumpelstiltskin feels himself recoil, an attack of self-consciousness he has not felt since he became the Dark One. He knows he’s a monster, a child-killing monster like those he used to despise, and now _she_ knows it, too. He’d told her with such arrogance that he’d be better than the rest of them, but of course, the damned, endless _being_ \--an Abbadon, she called herself--had been _right_. A bringer of death, and her to carry the souls away after.

“This one was well-loved,” she murmurs over the corpse, nearly into what’s left of the little girl’s ear.

“What’s your name?” Rumpelstiltskin asks--he’s full of questions today, apparently--and the hoarseness of his voice reveals how stricken he is. But there’s power in names, and he would have hers, if she’ll let him.

“Hm?” She looks up at him, her brow furrowed-- _she’s got to remember it,_ he realizes. Her fingers absentmindedly trace the features of the dead girl, and she chews on the corner of her lip. After a moment, her face lights up in recognition. “Belle. My name is Belle.” And she goes back to her work, leans over the body and closes her eyes in a nearly blissful expression.

And Rumpelstiltskin turns his back and walks away. He cannot watch.

No, now he must find somewhere new to go.

.....

They meet again, decades later--he kills less now, but when he does, he flees quickly to avoid her not-quite-indifference--and it’s not at all the same. She comes to him, as she always seems to do--but Rumpelstiltskin has not killed anyone, at least not lately, and he’s fairly certain he has no fresh corpses secreted away in the dungeons. So when he finds her bloody and bruised on the front steps of the Dark Castle, he cocks his head and narrows his eyes at her, wondering what sort of trick this might be. The Dark One has learned that threats lurk in every corner, and he’s warier than ever.

“Belle.” It’s the first time he’s tasted her name on his tongue, but he finds the sound of it is not unpleasant. “What are you doing here?”

She tries to untwist herself from where she lies, but she struggles beneath the mess of her wings. Her right wing is crumpled, smashed against her shoulder blade and soaked with blood. On a human it would look as like some costume-gone-wrong, but on Belle it’s as though she’s lost a limb. An attempt to stand up, but she only makes it to her hands and knees, and even that makes her pant with effort. “I need your help.”

But Rumpelstiltskin is not as human as he once was, more of a magician and alchemist. He raises an eyebrow. “Immortal, dearie?”

And she despises him for not helping right away, he can tell. “I’m damn near close enough to immortal, save for witches who cast spells on arrows.” She’s given up trying to stand, consoles herself by glaring at him from the ground. “She smelled like you. You never taught your apprentice that trying to assassinate death might be a bad idea?”

“Never seemed to come up in conversation.” He circles her, looking her up and down. After so many years, he’s learned some things. He’s read about Angels, fair beings with white wings of satin who live in the clouds, occasionally intervening in the lives of particularly good mortals. A laugh threatens to emerge, when he remembers that he once thought her an angel. Abbadons are more secretive--there’s little about them in his books, save for the wings of black and their duty to move souls along from one life to another. “So the queen can see you now, can she?”

Belle shakes her head. “No. But she’s been close to death enough times to know when it’s there. Or when _I’m_ there, rather. She’s never forgiven me for taking her true love from her, as though it was somehow my fault and not her mother’s. She killed a servant of hers, to lure me in. Her huntsman fired the arrow, not that he could see what he was shooting at.” She sighs, and the movement makes her grimace in pain. “Good aim, for shooting an invisible target.”

“And you came here?” The light-hearted humor of the Dark One colors his voice, and he knows it’s time for a flourish or fancy gesture, but somehow, in front of this Belle who knows him barely at all, and yet better than anyone else in this world, it would feel foolish, affected.

“Abbadons have no medicine of our own. Rarely any need for it. And don’t make me go crawling to the fairies for help.”

“I don’t give anything freely, dearie.” He’s proud, he knows, that he can keep up with her now, where once she outpaced him with her knowledge and inscrutability. The last time they saw each other, he was still a cowardly spinner, albeit one cursed by the Dark One. But now he is a feared sorcerer in his own right, and the years have taught him well.

“A deal then,” she snaps, and he can tell the pain in her wing is getting to her. “What is it you want of me? I have nothing to give. No unborn babies to sacrifice to you, either.”

He ignores her jabs and crouches beside her. “You can travel between worlds?”

“If I’ve a mind to.” Her wound has made her obstinate. “Though I prefer the work in this world.”

“I will help you recover. In exchange, you will bring me something of my son’s.” He’d considered the idea before, knew that these winged creatures were the only ones capable of flying through the glass that held the worlds apart. That Belle should need him now--fate. That silly witch-queen, in all her vanity, had actually done something useful for once.

“Baelfire?” She says his name now just to irritate him, he thinks. “You don’t have enough things of his that he left behind?”

_Closets of clothing, a chest of toys, that ball he loved to play with_. “I need something different. Something of his from this new world.”

“And it’s for some sort of magic, I suppose? Something you won’t be telling me about?”

“Of course.” He bares his foul teeth at her in a grin.

“Deal.” She nods, and he suspects she’d give him her usual careless shrug, too, if it wouldn’t hurt her so much. “Whatever spells you weave don’t concern me, I suppose, provided you won’t be using them to tear me from the sky.”

“Can you walk? You’ll heal far better in the castle, rather than on its front steps.”

“I cannot even stand up on my own, let alone walk.” Rumpelstiltskin can’t tell if the disgust in her words is more for him or herself.

He reaches a hand out to her, on her good side, the one without the uninjured wing, helps to pulls her upright. Her knees shake, nearly buckle, and her skin shines with sweat from the strain of it.

“Come along then.” He sweeps her into his arms, careful not to clamp his hands around either of her wings. Though they’ve touched before, it’s never been like this, this close, this intimate, and he’s shocked at the coolness of her flesh, cold even against his scales. And Belle is surprisingly light, he notes, lighter than a human of her size might be. 

“Don’t worry. I’m not heavy,” she says, as if she’s read his mind. “Hollow bones, you know. Makes it easier to fly.”

At this proximity, he can smell her, too. Where once he’d thought she smelled like parsnips that had sat in the sun just a little too long, the scholar of herb lore that he’s become recognizes the scent as hemlock. Another reason, then, that he always associated that plant with death.

Fitting.

 

 


	2. An Interlude

Rumpelstiltskin sets her, gently as he can, on his dining table. It never saw much use anyway--eating had lost its appeal years ago, particularly once he realized the sustenance wasn’t necessary. Belle moves so that she can lie on her stomach, the better to allow the Dark One access to her injured wing, and to avoid any more painful pressure on it. Damp blood makes her feathers glisten in the candlelight.

“Where’s the arrow?”

“I pulled it out.” She rests her head atop her arms, tilts it to the side to look up at him. “Why?”

“Might’ve been useful to see the curse on it, what sorts of treatments would work best,” he mutters, and is sure to make his irritation evident.

“Next time I’m shot I’ll leave the arrow in then, for you to inspect.”

He cannot mask his sneer. “You’re certainly saucier when you’re angry, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” She sounds surprised. Another emotion he’s never heard from her, at least during the course of their previous brief encounters.

It’s far preferable to her usual cryptic statements and dark demeanor, but he settles for simply telling her: “Yes.” 

Her silence is strange and empty, but he uses the time to study her wings closely for the first time. They’re tucked along her shoulder blades, and the flesh there transforms seamlessly into feathered tendons. The feathers themselves seem heavy, impractical--that, and covered in thorns. “There’s no curse if I prick myself upon these damned things, is there?”

“Perfectly safe,” she replies. “Just be careful. If I tear apart your hands I doubt you’ll forgive me for it.” 

He begins by touching the wounded right wing, brushing his fingers against it. The spines of her feathers catch upon the flesh of his fingertips, and Belle winces--it won’t be a pleasant experience, for either of them. Rumpelstiltskin, however, is at least able to magic himself a pair of gloves, for the time being. They might be in the way when the more precise work comes along, but for now the thick leather will protect him from further scratches and scrapes. As he smoothes back the bent and nearly-broken feathers, he travels along the curve of her wing until he finds the spot that the arrow pierced. A long, jagged gash, shining with blood--the blood here is purple, almost black, far darker than what stains her dress and equally-pale skin. It’s bled too much, too long. He touches the wound, and listens to her sharp intake of breath.

“It will fester, if I stitch it up right away,” he tells her. “There’s dark magic here. To prevent flight, escape--you walked all the way here, dearie?”

“A short distance, really, when you’ve been through all the worlds and back again,” she says. “But you can fix it?”

“Mmm,” he grunts in assent. “The queen meant to capture you, not to kill, it seems. Death may have been a better fate than that.”

“Or managing to get the hell away from her before the poison took hold. I think I picked the best fate, don’t you?” Belle hisses again, as he tries to further explore her injury.

“What would happen if you were to die?” he asks. Now that he has the mysterious Abbadon practically at his mercy, it is the most opportune time to ask all of those questions that books don’t hold the answers to.

“My corpse would rot into the ground, like a mortal’s. No one would come for my soul though--we do not have them.”

Rumpelstiltskin snaps his fingers, and a small, oak chest appears on the table beside Belle. He brushes dust away from the lid, opens it up, and starts to rummage through the glass bottles. “And if I were to die?”

“Whatever Abbadon was closest by would handle it. Probably me.” 

His upper lip curls. “I thought I didn’t have a soul, either?”

“I exaggerated. It’s shredded into bits, but it’s there, I promise you.” She grows suddenly solemn, at odds with their playful banter, and he wonders what she’s thinking until she speaks again. “You proved me wrong, Rumpelstiltskin. I thought you would last a year. How long has it been now?”

“I’ve lost track,” he mumbles, and the potion bottles become far more interesting, as he stares hard at the messily-scrawled labels to avoid looking back at her. 

“It’s Baelfire, isn’t it? He keeps you alive, even when he’s not here.” There’s amazement in her voice that he doesn’t care to hear, not from her, who’s never loved or been loved. He won’t allow his all-too-mortal love for his son become a roadside attraction for the lonely immortal beast. 

_Lonely_.

The word fits too well, he realizes. It’s why she talks to him, allows him to ask his probing questions, even gives him answers. Belle is lonely, and Rumpelstiltskin knows all too well what that feels like. The thought does not comfort him, however, and he winds it around a spool in the back of his mind to store for another time.

Finally he locates the potion he’s looking for. The words he wrote on it are too old, too faded to read, it’s been so long since he bottled it. But he recognizes it by its violent shade of purple, utterly unlike the rest of the more everyday healing potions, in earthy colors of brown and green. An unearthly potion for an unearthly creature. He’d made it for himself, to heal any possible magical wounds he might receive--but those were rarer than he’d thought, once his reputation spread, and no one dared anything besides a hastily drawn sword. But the potion would come in handy now, he supposes, and removes the cork. He tilts the vial forward, letting the liquid dribble out into the arrow-wound.

Belle sighs; the relief is immediate. “What’s that doing?”

“Eating away at the curse that’s buried itself there.” He narrows his eyes, watching and making sure that every last drop of the potion slips into the cut.

“Is that it, then?”

“No. The physical wound itself will need to heal naturally.” He gestures to her back. “The wings are far too delicate. Magic knitting the flesh back together--there’s a risk it won’t work right.” Rumpelstiltskin traces a line along the scooped back of her dress, outlining the base of her wings. “And we made a deal, dearie. You won’t very well be able to travel to Baelfire if my magic has broken you.” He strips off his gloves, and  snaps his fingers for the second time; a needle and a length of golden string appear in his hand. 

“And what are those for? Sewing to be done?”

He laughs, and threads the needle. “You know nothing of mortal medicine, do you? Now, hold still, dearie.”

As the needle slides and in and out of her wing, across the expanse of the wound, Belle and Rumpelstiltskin both grit their teeth in silence. When he ties a knot at the very end, they each breathe a little easier, and he whispers a quick spell to send the quills from her wing shooting out of his flesh. He clenches his hands, and the bloody little pinpricks disappear.

“That feels somewhat better,” Belle says, sitting up and craning her neck to see the job that he has done. When her words are followed by a yawn, Belle finds herself sprawled against Rumpelstiltskin’s chest again, his arms under her neck and legs as he takes her up a set of stairs. “Where are we going now?”

“You need your sleep, apparently.”

“I don’t need it often. But I am _exhausted,_ I suppose.” She yawns again, and stretches her arms out, though she’s careful not to accidentally smack her host in the chin. Belle hears him kick open a door, and lets him place her on the edge of a bed. “I haven’t slept in a bed in centuries. Trees, usually.” Though, Rumpelstiltskin notes, it appears she has not forgotten how it works, as she scurries underneath the silk bedcovers, curls into a little ball on her stomach.

“Alert me if you need anything else,” he says, watching her from the doorway.

“All right.” Her eyes are already closed. 

The strangeness of this angel of death--he prefers those words, their simplicity, to the foreign-sounding _Abbadon_ \--cuddled up in his bed like a little girl, befuddles the Dark One. He tries to banish her from his mind as he turns in the direction of his workroom, to continue crafting his curse that, after their deal is complete, seems far more likely to be cast.

.....

After two days of some light bed rest--the rest of the time Belle spends wandering his castle, insisting she needs the exercise--she begins to deteriorate. She’s tired, and when Rumpelstiltskin sits on the side of his bed, takes her hand, and asks her to squeeze with all her strength, he hardly feels the too-slight increase of pressure upon his fingers. He inspects her wing--its healing as well as can be, as far as he can tell. The Queen’s magic nearly gone, and the stitches sealing nicely.

“You need to eat something,” he tells her.

“No. I don’t,” she says. “Though I will have some tea.”

She’s taken a liking to tea, during her brief stay here. No milk or sugar, just black and hot and several cups of it a day. The teapot sits ever-ready at her bedside. He pours her a cup, passes it to her. But her hands tremble too much, with the onset of this mysterious illness, and the cup clatters to the floor, spilling tea all over his boots.

“I’m sorry.” Defiant a moment ago, now Belle sounds nearly on the cusp of tears. 

He blinks, and the tea disappears and his boots are clean and fresh again. The cup is chipped, though, but it’s still usable and nothing worth repairing. “No matter,” he says, and tries to hide how unsettled he is.

.....

He has a pile of straw at his feet, drawing it slowly through the twisting of the spinning wheel, listening to its click and whir as the burnished yellow transforms into gold. That’s when he hears her bare feet slap against the stone steps, taking them as fast as she is able. He turns around, and Belle is clinging to the bannister. She’s far paler than usual, and her eyes are wide and wild.

For the first time in a very long while, Rumpelstiltskin is afraid of her.

“I need to feed,” she forces out, in something between and whisper and a gasp.

He stands, acts aloof, expression impassive. “I’ve been telling you that you should eat, dearie.”

“Not food.” She’s panting, and if not for the bannister to hold her weight, he doubts she would be able to remain upright. “Souls.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s had a few brief encounters with vampires, hidden away in the cracks and shadows of the world, and Belle reminds him of one of them. Her mouth is wet and greedy, and when she’s like this, hungry and desperate, he can easily imagine her jaws clamping around the throat of some poor peasant, greedy for their blood. “Souls?”

She nods, and her head lolls back against her shoulder. “Dead. Dead that no other Abbadons have touched yet.”

“Well, how do I know if they still have their souls yet or not if they’re _dead_?” Healed her wing, and now he’s stuck playing errand boy. She’s more trouble than she’s worth, he thinks.

.....

Belle is slumped against his spinning wheel, when Rumpelstiltskin returns to the Dark Castle. He holds a bumbling, dark-haired lordling by his collar, and thrusts the annoyance toward her.

Her eyes open. “Alive.” she says weakly. 

“I am Sir Gaston.” The knight--princes seem to bestow that honor upon anyone, these days--draws his sword. He points it at Rumpelstiltskin. “I will kill you, foul monster.”

Rumpelstiltskin speaks to Belle over the knight’s shoulder. “He was bothering the princesses of all the kingdoms with leers and proposals. No one will miss him. Plus, I will be fulfilling my end of a different deal. Death has a different meaning to me, dearie.”

Gaston scowls. “My father will--”

“I am not a killer,” Belle protests.

“But I am.” Rumpelstiltskin grins, and the man’s throat opens itself, flooding blood onto the floor. Gaston falls, too, eyes open wide. He twitches for several seconds, and suddenly Belle’s eyes are locked onto him, watching the life leak out. 

When it’s gone, when his body stills and the blood stops its dribbling, she pounces, latching her mouth onto the dead knight’s and inhaling hard.

As she finishes, Belle stands, strength renewed, and her hands and dress covered in wide streaks of crimson.

“You feed on the dead,” Rumpelstiltskin says. It’s not a question, but an acknowledgement.

She nods, and he can see she’s trembling again. It’s a different sort of trembling though, not from weakness or pain or fear. Trembling with the feel of her own life within her, reawakening after a short slumber.

“A scavenger, then, and not some soul-carrying savior.”

“I never claimed to be.” Belle shrugs. “Still, it’s a better fate for souls than entrapment in a dead body. I make them move on.”

He voice lowers an octave, serious now, instead of light and teasing. “Are you sure about that, dearie?”

She turns her head to the side, and Rumpelstiltskin sees the blood in her hair, and a smear of it across her cheek and ear. “We all have our curses, Rumpelstiltskin. And not knowing, perhaps, is mine.”


End file.
